


Shirt--A Five Times + One Fic

by jdrush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Fic, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 13:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: Five times Sherlock shared, and the one time John did.





	Shirt--A Five Times + One Fic

**Author's Note:**

> RATING: PG-13 for boykisses and implied naughtiness.  
SPOILERS: Itty ones for “aSiP”  
DISCLAIMER: Still owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC1, and Gatiss and Moffat.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm slowly uploading my old stories to the archive. This one was first posted to my Live Journal August, 2011.

1) John Watson was late for work. Again. He skipped his usual shower and shave, opting for simply wetting down his hair in the sink and combing it into submission. Scrambling into socks, shorts, trousers and undershirt, he opened his closet door and muttered a few choice curse words at what was there. Or rather. . .what wasn’t.

Grabbing his shoes, he stomped down the stairs and headed straight for Sherlock’s room. A sharp rap to announce his presence (as angry as he was those damn good manners were too deeply ingrained to just crash into his flatmate’s room. . .unlike a certain OTHER resident of the flat that he could name) before he pushed the door open, revealing its occupant, currently kneeling on the floor and digging around the bottom of his closet apparently looking for a pair of matching shoes--if his bare feet were any indication.

“You know, Sherlock,” John began, trying to keep his voice even and non-argumentative (and just barely succeeding), “I don’t ask you to do much around here. The cooking, the cleaning, the bleeding shopping--none of it. I do it all. Cheerfully.” He paused for a moment at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. “Okay, maybe not cheerfully, but I do it. And all I asked of you was one thing, one tiny thing--could you PLEASE pick up the laundry. But I should have known you wouldn’t listen.”

“I DID listen,” Sherlock replied as he pulled out one sleek black Italian loafer. “I simply didn’t DO it.”

“Yeah, I just noticed. And now I have no shirts left for work.”

“Wear one of your jumpers. AH!” he declared happily, unearthing the matching loafer. “THERE you are!”

“Sherlock! It’s the middle of June!”

“And?”

“AND?!” John repeated, incredulously. “And it’s the middle of June, you prat! No one wears jumpers in this weather. That’s why I needed my shirts.”

“I don’t see why you waited until they were all dirty before dropping them off in the first place,” Sherlock commented.

“Not everyone has the entire menswear department of Harrod’s in their closet,” John shot back. “And for your information, I couldn’t get to the cleaners earlier because I was busy. On a case. On YOUR case.”

“Oh, stop your whinging. I’ll pick them up today.”

“That’s all well and good, but I have to be at the surgery in. . .” he looked down at his watch and groaned, “. . . 20 minutes ago, and I don’t have anything to wear!”

“Fine. Here,” Sherlock declared, as he snatched one of his own shirts off a hanger and tossed it to John. A stylish stormy grey silk garment. “Wear one of mine.”

John just stood there, mouth open but no sound coming out, as he looked between the shirt and Sherlock. “Uh. . .”

With an impatient roll of his eyes, Sherlock announced, “It’s clean.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I’m sure it. . .I know,” John babbled. “But it’s. . . well. . .” _*yours*_ was on the tip of his tongue but instead he said, “. .um . . .it’ll be big, don’t you think?”

“Roll up the cuffs,” Sherlock suggested, pushing passed John and into the kitchen. “Under your little doctor’s jacket, no one will notice.”

But someone DID notice. All day long, John was conscious of the fact that he was wearing one of Sherlock’s Gieves and Hawkes shirts--a shirt that probably cost more than John’s monthly share of the rent. For not the first time, John wondered why Sherlock had needed to find a flatmate in the first place when he obviously had enough money for all his trendy, designer clothes. Then again, perhaps that was exactly the reason he needed a flatmate--all his money was probably stuffing the coffers of the shops along Savile Row.

He found himself throughout the day stroking the cuffs, enjoying the feel of the luxurious material slipping between his fingers. More than once his thoughts wandered to Sherlock, knowing this shirt had caressed that milky-white skin, the collar resting against that long, elegant neck, pale and tempting, naked, in need of marking. . .

‘Stop it, John!’ John scolded himself each time ‘Those are not the thoughts to be having about your flatmate!’ He shook his head and sighed. Tomorrow he’d have his own simple cotton shirts back and he could forget all about this experience.

Or at least TRY to forget.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

2) The next day brought another wave of disappointment, as John stared into his empty closet. He took a moment to collect himself before grabbing his robe and heading downstairs. He found his frustrating flatmate sitting at the kitchen table. No breakfast in sight, naturally, unless Sherlock was planning on noshing on the pig fetus set before him, which, quite frankly, wouldn’t surprise John in the least. “I prefer my bacon a bit more cured,” he deadpanned.

“Make one for me,” Sherlock answered distractedly, turning the unfortunate piglet on its stomach.

“One what?”

“Bacon sarnie. Sounds lovely.”

“How can you eat. . .” John just let the sentence trail away. It was pointless to try to understand Sherlock Holmes, especially this early in the morning, and especially before his first cup of tea. Shaking his head he instead asked, “Where are my shirts?”

Sherlock paused in his examination and looked up at John, a puzzled look on his face. “Shirts? I thought we were talking about breakfast.”

“We were. No, actually, we weren’t. I was just making a joke.”

“About shirts?”

“No. The pig. . .” John stopped and took a deep breath. “Forget it. Just tell me where my shirts are?”

There was an awkward pause, then Sherlock‘s eyes suddenly lit up with comprehension. “OH! Your shirts. Right.”

“Yes. Where are they?”

“Still at the cleaners, I suppose.”

John experienced one of those face-palm moments that seemed a part of life when associating with Sherlock Holmes. “You forgot to pick them up again.”

“I didn’t FORGET them,” Sherlock answered, indignantly. “I was busy on the other side of London on a case.”

John huffed an exasperated puff of air. “Of course you were.”

“You can call the Yard if you don’t believe me.”

“I’m not going to bother Lestrade over some forgotten shirts.”

“I told you I didn’t forget them. Look, I’ll go pick them up today.”

“Promise?” John asked, skeptically.

“Do you want me to pinkie swear?“ Sherlock snarked.

“Just pick up the damn shirts. Please.” John paused for a moment, dreading what he was about to say. Glancing down at the floor, his fingers toying nervously with the belt of his robe, he stammered, “Um, Sherlock. . .I hate to ask. . .”

He got no further than that, as Sherlock stood and left the kitchen; in just a few moments, he had returned and handed John a chic, collarless, cream-coloured linen shirt with tortoise-shell buttons. “Will this do?”

John stood there a moment, holding the fine garment, visions of sick little tykes and their sticky hands swamping his brain. “I. . .yes. It’s just. . .”

“Problem?”

“I’m just afraid it’ll get ruined, that’s all.”

Sherlock waved off his concern. “Not to worry. I’ve got plenty more.”

“If you’re sure. . .”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t.”

“Well, okay,” John answered, still uncertain. “Thanks.”

A small smile tugged at Sherlock‘s lips. “Don’t mention it. Now, as for that bacon sarnie. . .”

John sighed his familiar long-suffering sigh as he reached for the fry pan. “Coming right up.”

\+ + + + + + + + + +

3) Another day. Another empty closet. John slowly counted to ten. Then he did it again. Then once more, just for good measure. Pointless.

Mycroft was right. His therapist WAS utter crap.

Gathering his robe tightly around him, he walked down the stairs with measured, even steps, planning out how he was going to kill his infuriating flatmate, and where he could hide the body.

It didn’t take him long to find said infuriating flatmate. Sherlock was languorously sprawled on the sofa like a fainting Victorian maiden. Before John could say a word, Sherlock sighed dramatically. “How can you stand it?”

“What?”

Waving a hand feebly through the air, Sherlock muttered scornfully, “This whole living lark.”

“Beats the alternative.”

“But it’s so bleeding boring!” Sherlock whined. “I’m about to go out of my mind!”

“And how will I be able to tell?”

Sherlock dug down deep and somehow managed to find the energy to roll his head on the sofa arm and look over at John. “Doesn’t it ever bother you? Don’t you ever get bored?”

“Sure. Sometimes. Life is a series of lulls between exciting highs.”

“Deepak Chopra?”

“Red Dragon fortune cookie. Sherlock, where are my shirts?“

“At the cleaners.”

“Yes. Obviously, since they’re not in my closet. I can’t believe you forgot again. . .”

“I didn’t forget,” Sherlock replied, casually. “I went to pick them up but they weren’t there.”

“What do you mean they weren’t there?”

“There was no bundle of shirts under the name John Watson, that’s what I mean.”

“There had to be.”

“Well, there wasn’t. I argued with the woman for 20 minutes, but she was adamant.”

John ran his fingers roughly through his hair in frustration. “I can’t believe this! I’ve been going to Barry’s for ages now. I’ve never had this problem before.”

“Barry’s?”

“Yes. Barry’s Dry Cleaning. On Green Street.”

“Ah.”

“What does ‘ah’ mean?”

“I thought they were at Benny’s. On Baywater Road. That explains it, then.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the impending headache. He had a feeling it wasn’t going to work. “Sherlock. . .”

“Tonight,” the great detective vowed, whipping out a midnight-black poplin shirt with onyx buttons from seemingly nowhere, and passing it over to the stunned doctor. “You can count on me.”

Five hours later, John found himself on a train to Birmingham, a letter of commendation from Lestrade in his pocket, and his wallet full of bail money . “Count on me, my arse,” he muttered disgustedly under his breath, ignoring the strange looks he got from his fellow passengers. “To get in trouble, maybe. At least I won’t be the only one with an ASBO on my record, although he‘ll probably just get Mycroft to expunge it, the bloody wanker. . .”

By the time it was all sorted out and they got back to London, Barry’s Dry Cleaning was closed for the night. And John was starting to wonder if he’d ever see his shirts again.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

4) Breakfast the next morning was a little strained, as can be imagined. The pig fetus was long gone, replaced by a bowl of cinnamon apple oatmeal and a very repentant Sherlock Holmes. “I’m really sorry about yesterday, John. I didn’t INTEND to get caught.”

“I know,” John sighed as he sat down at the table. And he did. Sherlock never intended to get into trouble. He just couldn’t help it sometimes. Trouble simply found him. He was a trouble-magnet.

“If it hadn’t been for that insolent mutt barking and alerting the neighbors. . .”

“Sherlock, really, it’s okay. Let’s just drop it.”

John went back to his breakfast while Sherlock went back to his brooding. After a few minutes, where the only sound was the clinking of John’s spoon as he ate his cereal, Sherlock broke the silence, as he was prone to do. “I was right, though,” he muttered, “Isaac Reynolds DID steal that priceless Renoir etching.”

“Well, perhaps next time you should contact the local police department and share your information instead of taking it upon yourself to break into a suspect’s house.”

“There wasn’t time,” Sherlock protested. “Reynolds was preparing to flee the country, and the artwork would have been lost forever. I had to stop him.”

“And you’re saying it was easier and less time consuming to take a train ride all the way to Birmingham instead of just picking up the phone and making a call?”

Sherlock pouted into his cup of tea. “I’ve never been to Birmingham before. Thought it was a good opportunity to see what I was missing.”

“The inside of a holding cell, apparently.”

“Did I thank you for coming to get me?”

“You could just thank me by picking up my shirts.”

Sherlock gave an irritated huff. “And it comes back to the shirts. I should have known you would. . .”

“Look, I really don’t think it’s too much to ask for in life,” John cut in. “A few clean shirts should not be such an impossible request.”

“I assure you, John, I’ll get them today. Barry’s on Green Street, right?”

John took a final bite of his oatmeal and pushed himself away from the table. Dropping the dirty bowl into the sink, he stated, “Actually, you know what? They’re my shirts so they’re my responsibility. I’LL get them on the way home from work.”

“A bit out of your way,” Sherlock noted.

“It‘s all fine. You’ll get dinner?”

“Of course.”

John gave him a dubious look; Sherlock had agreed to that FAR too easily. “You won’t forget?”

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed, as if the very notion of him forgetting something was patently ridiculous. “I suppose you’ll need to borrow another one of mine?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Wait right there.” Sherlock returned a minute later carrying an absolutely stunning snow-white cambric creation with pearl buttons. “One of my favourites,” he announced, holding it up against John’s chest. “Gift from Mummy.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t. . .”

“No, I insist,” he said as he handed it to John. With a small smile, he added, “It’s the least I can do after last night. See you around six, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah,” John replied in a daze, then turned and headed to his room to finish getting dressed.

Naturally, things didn’t work out the way John had planned. A last minute emergency caused his shift to run late. Once the young patient had been stitched up--with the promise of never NEVER riding his bike again without a helmet--John dashed from the clinic and flagged down a cab. He had just enough time to get to Barry's before they closed.

Or not.

*What kind of business closes at three o’clock on Thursdays?* John thought bitterly as he stood outside the locked door. Even if his shift had ended on time, he never would have made it.

His shirts, it would seem, were destined to reside at Barry’s Dry Cleaning forever.

With slow, defeated steps, John made his way back to Baker Street, dreading the smug look on Sherlock’s face when he arrived empty-handed. He was spared that indignity, however, when upon entering the flat he discovered Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He had, however, left John a gift: a container of pork lo mein--John’s favorite--was sitting in the middle of a relatively clean kitchen table.

And for some reason John couldn’t identify, after the crap day he had had, that greasy take-away carton gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling deep inside.

\+ + + + + + + + + +

5) The next morning, John returned from his shower to find one of Sherlock’s shirts laid out on his bed. The gorgeous aubergine one that looks so utterly sexy on his flatmate.

*And just get that thought out your head right now, John Hamish Watson!*

John carefully picked it up and slipped it on; with shaky fingers, he fastened the buttons and fixed the cuffs. He quickly pulled on socks and a pair of khakis, then turned to the mirror to check out his appearance.

He looked good. Damn good. Not as good as Sherlock did in that particular shirt, but not all that shabby, either. He took a minute to put on his shoes then grabbed up his wallet and phone and headed downstairs for breakfast.

Entering the kitchen, he found Sherlock already sitting at the table, The Times spread out before him, the aroma of fresh coffee filling the air. “Morning, Sherlock,” John greeted as he made his way over to the pot and poured himself a cup.

“Hmmmm.”

“Thank you for dinner last night.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Eating this morning?”

“Hmmmm.”

“Toast okay?”

“Hmmmm.”

John smiled. This was more typical of mornings with Sherlock. He threw some slices of bread into the toaster and reached into the fridge for the jam. “Anything good?” he asked, gesturing to the paper.

Sherlock tossed the paper aside in disgust and huffed, “Nothing. Not a single interesting crime to save me from the banality of my existence.”

“There’s always the Jumble.”

“Dull.” He looked up as John placed the jam jar on the table, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Ah! You found it.”

“Yes, it was behind the bowl of chicken feet. For once I REALLY hope those are for an experiment.”

“No, not the jam, and yes, they are. I meant, you found the shirt.”

John glanced down at the deep purple garment and smoothed his hand over the rich material. “On the bed. How did you know?”

“You weren’t home when I left last night, and no ticket from the cleaners on the table this morning. Figured you’d need it.”

“Well, thank you, again. You’ve been most accommodating.”

A shrug of slim shoulders. “It’s really been no trouble.”

“Still, I hate to abuse your kindness. I’ll definitely pick them up tonight, come hell or high water.”

“There’s no rush, John.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't mind you wearing my shirts. That one looks particularly fetching on you.”

“It does?” John asked, curiously.

“I think aubergine is your color.” His assessing cool grey eyes raked up and down John’s body, and he smiled in approval. “Looks good with your skin tone.”

John didn’t know what to say to that, and was quite thankful the toaster took that moment to pop up. When he turned back to Sherlock, plate of warm toast in hand, he discovered that Sherlock had returned his attention back to the paper, muttering under his breath about the stupidity of the human race.

Work that day was rather strange. Everyone seemed to go out of their way to stop into his office and comment on his new shirt. Two female patients (and one handsome young bloke) flirted shamelessly with him. Perhaps he'd go shopping this weekend for a purple shirt of his own--in his limited price-range, of course.

Still, while all the attention was nice, no praise was as meaningful as the compliment Sherlock had paid him.

With Sarah’s blessing, he ducked out of work a few minutes early, determined not to leave his shirts in Barry’s care for one more day.

He arrived home later that evening, dry cleaning in one hand, supper in the other. His tread on the stairs was more buoyant than usual--after all, he finally had his shirts. Huzzah! He bounded into the flat and into the kitchen, where he found Sherlock perched on a stool, examining some kind of neon green liquid under his microscope, the bowl of chicken feet close at hand.

John didn’t ask. He really didn’t want to know.

“Picked up dinner,” he announced instead, placing the bag on the table a safe distance from the chicken feet. “That vegetable curry from The Bombay Café you like so much. I’ll just go upstairs and change so I don’t get anything on. . .”

Suddenly a large hand shot out and grabbed his arm, effectively stilling John in his tracks. “Don’t,” Sherlock commanded.

“Don’t. . .what?”

With a single graceful move, Sherlock spun around on his stool and stood up in front of John, completely invading his personal space. “Don’t take the shirt off.” He reached out, placing his hands on John’s hips, his eyes burning with hunger. “I want you wearing it when I shag you insensible.”

“Uh. . .what?” John managed to stammer before Sherlock pulled him in tightly, flush against his long, lean body, and crushed his mouth to the startled doctor’s.

The long coveted shirts slipped silently from John’s fingers, unnoticed and forgotten.

Before John knew what had hit him, the kiss ended, as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had begun. He watched in confusion and disappointment as Sherlock pulled back, breaking the connection between the two of them. The hungry look in his eyes had dissipated, replaced by uncertainty and, unusual for Sherlock, shyness.

Sherlock leaned down and pressed his forehead to John’s as he whispered, “Tell me, John. If I’m wrong and you don’t want this too, please tell me. I’ll stop right now, and never mention it again. I promise.”

‘Stop’ was definitely not a word John was thinking of at that moment. It wasn’t even in the top 100. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s slim waist, John smiled up at his dear friend. “You’re not wrong, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sagged in relief. “I was hoping you’d say that.” This time the kiss was slower, gentler, sweeter, Sherlock’s soft lips pressed to John’s. A tentative tongue teased, seeking entrance; with a low needy whimper, lips parted and Sherlock licked into John’s mouth, deepening the kiss further.

For long moments they stood like that, twined around each other, surrounded by curry and chicken feet and mysterious green goop. Hands roving, lips sliding, tongues exploring--learning, experiencing, enjoying--as secret fantasies and hidden desires were exposed and shared.

When breath became a serious issue (because while breathing may be boring, it IS necessary) they parted, slowly, reluctantly. They searched each other’s eyes and faces, looking for some explanation, trying to slot this new reality into their lives, redefining in just a few seconds what ‘Sherlock‘ and ‘John‘ were. Or could be.

“What brought all this on?” John asked breathlessly, curiously.

“You’ve been driving me wild all week,” Sherlock replied, his voice a deep sexy rumble, his hands--those glorious hands--sliding up John‘s back and over his shoulders. “Seeing you in my shirts, especially this one,” hands skimming down John’s arms and across his chest, caressing the body-warmed silk, his words a low cadence. “It's been almost primal, this possessiveness I’ve felt.”

John grasped Sherlock’s wandering hands, a familiar frown creasing his brow. “Wait. Hang on. Are you saying this has all been deliberate? You purposely left my stuff at the cleaners so that I’d wear YOUR shirts instead?”

Startled by John’s actions, Sherlock snapped out of his lustful trance. “Well, no,” he scrambled to explain. “I mean. . .not initially. But after that first day, I’ll admit to deriving a certain pleasure in seeing you wrapped in my clothing.”

“So all those excuses for not picking up my shirts.” Sherlock hung his head. “And the trip up to Birmingham.” Sherlock gave a short, embarrassed nod. “And you KNEW Barry’s closed early on Thursdays. That’s why you didn’t put up a fuss yesterday when I said I’d go get them myself.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip nervously. “Not good?”

John’s mouth curved into an affectionate smile. If given a hundred years, he’d never fully understand this complex, wonderful man. “Well, it’s weird, but for you. . .it’s practically normal. And in an odd kind of way, it‘s rather flattering.” He didn’t add that Sherlock could have just ASKED to snog him, because, of course, that would have been TOO easy to do.

“So you’re not angry?”

“Are you going to kiss me again?” John asked playfully, placing Sherlock’s hands back on his hips.

Sherlock’s lips quirked in a half-grin. “I had planned to, yes.”

John looped his own hands around Sherlock’s neck. “Then no, definitely not angry.”

The half-grin took on a decidedly feral appearance as Sherlock pressed John against the kitchen counter. “I’m going to remember this every time I wear that shirt,” he purred.

*So will I*, John thought happily as his mouth was claimed by Sherlock once more.

\+ + + + + + + + + + +

+1) “John?”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock charged out of his bedroom, wearing just a pair of stylish black skinny jeans. “Where are all my shirts?”

John looked up from his laptop, barely suppressing a grin. “Oh. That.”

“Yes. That. Where?”

The grin could no longer be contained. “At Barry‘s.”

“What?”

“Well, you were so kind, lending me your shirts last week. It’s my way of saying thank you.”

“By kidnapping my shirts and dropping them off at the cleaners.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You could have left one.”

“Unfortunately, they were all dirty,” John stated calmly, a mischievous twinkle in eye.

“But I have to get to Bart’s!” Sherlock whined. “Now!”

“Here.” John stood up and handed over a short-sleeve, brownish plaid shirt that just happened to be conveniently resting on the desk. “You can wear one of mine.”

Sherlock took the offered shirt from John with a scowl of distaste. Pinching it with two fingers, and holding it as far away from his body as his long arms would allow him, he sneered, “You expect me to wear this. . .this. . .cotton-poly blend outrage in public?”

“It’s not THAT bad,” John disputed.

“Don’t you have anything else I can wear?”

“Well, I have a Spice Girls Reunion Tour tee-shirt that should fit you.” At Sherlock’s scandalized look, John added, “It was a gift from Harry.”

Shaking the plaid shirt in John’s face, Sherlock declared, “If I put this on, I can’t leave the flat.”

A lascivious smirk crossed John’s expressive face. “That WAS the plan.”

Sherlock mulled over those words for a second or two, when his face suddenly lit up with understanding. “Oh,” he gasped, excitedly. “OH!”

“Some genius,” John murmured as he pulled Sherlock in for a breath-taking snog.

THE END


End file.
